


Lost in Reverie

by blazersandbarricades



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazersandbarricades/pseuds/blazersandbarricades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melancholic seasons take their toll on the poet.</p>
<p>A/N: Heavy trigger warnings for depression, anxiety, mentions of self-harm, self-loathing, suicide</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in Reverie

It was that favourable time of year again - frost on windowpanes, chilly winds tousling stray pieces of hair, the familiar crunch of rust coloured leaves beneath boots. Jehan Prouvaire adored the months that autumn became winter. It suited his melancholic romanticism quite well, yet proved an addiction to his depressive habits all the same.

Spending his afternoon aimlessly people watching with a seasonal drink was a far more pleasant option than attending class. He could not bare it in such a state. His mental health had trapped his imagination once again, as he was all too familiar with, preventing him from the ability to make false alibis for his behaviour.

Today, he was unable to explain his situation to any of his friends.

 

He regretted admitting his faults originally, since there had been an obvious rift in the relationships after the truth was revealed. It now took him far longer to come to decide if informing others of his issues would be beneficial, or treacherous.

Jehan felt restricted in his friendships, despite the fact no one ever criticized his actions. They were all rather lovely with their advice, and support, yet he knew their relationships could never be the same. He had burdened them with a darkness he had yet to recognize the true identity of within himself, appearing a polar opposite to his normal behaviour. It was his biggest regret, and he could never take that back.

The truth was out in the open, and it had tainted his reputation among his most treasured friends, and Jehan hated the fact that it had only grown worse.

What was once a faint smoky haze of self-doubt, aggression, and identity loss, had transformed into a bitter pessimism of self-hatred, and resentment.

How was he meant to express that terrorizing realization to the friends who had been so compassionate to him in the beginning? How was he meant to reveal that instead of improving, he’d become reclusive, and suicidal? No, those truths were only conveyed in his writing. Writing that he did not dare submit to public viewing.

His notebooks once vines full of life, and lyrical melodies, had intertwined with thorns piercing poison into his words.

That poison had become an addiction, one that Jehan had to force himself to control so as to not offend those close to him with his bitter reveries of failure, and false hope. No matter how hard Grantaire tried to measure up to Enjolras’ ideals, he would always fall short. No matter how much Courfeyrac pushed himself to succeed in a law career, his reputation would hold him back in the future.  No matter the dedicated hours Joly put towards his medical background, could prevent the tragedies his partners would face in the future (It was a sworn secret between a fair few of them, that Joly could never know the real reasons Bossuet had issues with hair loss).

Jehan was their confidant. His words of wisdom provided a temporary solution for his friends. His gracious empathy, and optimism had came in handy many a time for others, yet had been the ultimate sacrifice for the poet himself. He had grown tired, and overwhelmed with his ability to solve everyone else’s problems except his own.

The darkness had seeped into his veins, despite his lack of knowledge regarding its time of entry. Over time, he had accepted it. He had learned to live with the consequences, and adapt to the bitterness. Acceptance turned to dependence and torment. Jehan had withheld the extent of his burdens for months, and was a crafty liar. He had let the poisoned words get the better of him twice, with failed attempts, and was dangerously close to accomplishing his goal on the third try.

It was common knowledge to accept the help from his friends, since he had gone above and beyond the required assisting confidant role, yet Jehan could not let himself have that luxury. He had retreated from admitting his mistakes, and true behaviour for so long, that it seemed pointless to confess months of lies now.

Jehan’s downfall was caring too much. He had to cut off his emotions completely if he was about to succeed on his third try. He had considered his friends concerns, and allowed the guilt to eat away at him, preventing his ability to be completely selfish. He worried how they would cope in the aftermath, and how many lives he would ruin besides his own. Despite the nagging feeling to open up to someone about his true state, Jehan could not force himself to be cared for. He could not force himself to see that he deserved to be happy.

His behaviour likely had not gone fully unnoticed by all members of the Amis; someone had to have realized his falsehoods, yet nothing had been mentioned to Jehan himself. They had to know that an intervention would not benefit the poet, yet a small piece of Jehan resented the fact that it appeared that he genuinely was alone. He had pushed everyone away to a certain extent that they would not want to help him; not that he would let them without violently lashing out, similar to Grantaire.

Grantaire. Jehan had considered confiding his troubles to the cynic, but knew it would likely do more damage to Grantaire’s health. He did not want to trigger the man, or cause anyone further distress than was necessary.

It was quite the predicament Jehan had got himself into which was part of the reason he kept these concerns to himself, eating away at his flesh from the inside out. He felt a hollow emptiness that he’d only read previously, experiencing it was a far worse reality than appreciating the beauty of literature.


End file.
